


Found (Family) Time and Time Again

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alpha Oikawa Tooru, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Hanamaki Takahiro, Beta Matsukawa Issei, Child Kageyama Tobio, Implied Mpreg, Listen due to the nature of the story its there but nothing explicit I promise, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Iwaizumi Hajime, The National Team as a family, if you want just imagine tobio was delivered by a stork, some found family for the soul, will update tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “It’s the man from before!” Hajime loves his son, loves him more than life itself. However, if there could be one time that he wouldn’tstate the obvious,he wishes it were now. Then again, Tobio has always, ever since he could start talking, been one to speak every single thought that passed through his little head.He resists the urge to put his head in his hands. Instead, he looks up to where Tobio is waving rather enthusiastically at Oikawa, who is wearing bewilderment like a second skin, waving back like his hand is tied to a string controlled by a puppeteer.“Iwa-ch- Iwaizumi,” he says. “How are you?”How are you?How are you?Hajime wants to say a lot of things abouthow he is. He’s twenty-seven years old with a three year old son.Or: It's been nearly ten years since Oikawa and Iwaizumi have spoken. Now the 2020 Olympics are soon approaching, with Oikawa on the squad, and Iwaizumi has the head Athletic Trainer.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei (background), Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 295
Collections: Fanfic Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to try my hand at a/b/o.... idk im bored and alone house sitting. This is purely self-indulgent. 
> 
> Some notes: As stated in the tags, giving the nature of this story (it is a/b/o) there is some implied mpreg. However nothing is explicit, and I genuinely mean that. If you want to imagine Tobio came down via stork then by all means. But if it isn't your cup of tea then no sweat. 
> 
> Also, the terms 'mom' and 'dad' have nothing to do with our own societal gender norms. Mom just means the one that gave birth. Any of the sub-genders can be labeled 'mom'.

“Mama?”

Hajime hums, not looking up from the two different brands of milk in his hands, one with a blue label, and one with a green. There’s one that Tobio will not drink, under no circumstance, and he can never remember which one that is. He wants to say it’s the green one, but he’s almost _positive_ he bought the green one last time, and Tobio drank it without complaint. But if he gets the green one, chances are it’s actually the _blue_ one, and then he’ll have to make _another_ trip out to the store, along with the absolute _fit_ his son will have. Maybe he should just get both. He likes milk well enough to finish a carton by himself. Or maybe he can just transfer the undesired milk into the desired milk carton. That oughta do the trick.

“Why is that man staring at us?,” Tobio asks, sounding as unbothered as any three year old can. The hairs on the back of his neck stand. _Now,_ he can feel eyes on him, which also means there’s eyes on his _son._ He snaps his head up, not thinking to scent the air, whipping around to where Tobio is pointing, with a snarl already on his face to chew out who ever the _fuck_ is looking at his kid.

But instead the eyes of a stranger, he’s met with a pair of chestnut eyes that are so painfully familiar, wide with disbelief. There, next to the mango cart, is Oikawa Tooru, someone he hasn’t seen in almost ten years, not after he ducked out of Japan to play pro in Argentina. He feels the milk cartons slip from his grasp, as Oikawa turns on his heel, running right into the mango cart, knocking a few to the ground. Hajime can hear him curse and apologize to the woman standing near him, picking up the dropped fruit like they burn to touch.

“ _Shit,”_ he swears himself, bending down to grab the cartons he dropped. “ _Shit.”_

He makes it through the rest of his shopping list at breakneck speed. Tobio is a little disgruntled, as he must be the only three year old in the world that actually enjoys a trip to the grocery store. He likes to point out all the food he recognizes. Still, Hajime is trying to avoid a confrontation with someone he hasn’t seen in almost a decade.

And he begins to thank every deity that he doesn’t run into Oikawa, in spite of the small size of the store.

Hajime wishes he would learn not to count his chickens before they hatch.

He gets to the checkout. There’s only two lines open. Hajime chooses one, and that exact moment, Oikawa chooses the one right next to him.

He didn’t smell him before, too caught up in the _dangerdangerdanger_ alarms going off in his head after Tobio pointed him out, but he can smell him now. He smells the same as he did in high school, balsam fir and juniper with a hint of sweetness peaking through, heady and demanding to be noticed. But there’s something else too, an underlying salt that wasn’t there before, like the first deep breath of ocean air on vacation.

(He wonders how much his scent has changed too.)

“Mama!” Tobio chirps, and Hajime begs the gods for interference. “It’s the man from before!” Hajime loves his son, loves him more than life itself. However, if there could be one time that he wouldn’t _state the obvious,_ he wishes it were now. Then again, Tobio has always, ever since he could start talking, been one to speak every single thought that passed through his little head.

He resists the urge to put his head in his hands. Instead, he looks up to where Tobio is waving rather enthusiastically at Oikawa, who is wearing bewilderment like a second skin, waving back like his hand is tied to a string controlled by a puppeteer.

“Iwa-ch- Iwaizumi,” he says. “How are you?”

_How are you?_

_**How are you?** _

Hajime wants to say a lot of things about _how he is_. He’s twenty-seven years old with a three year old son.

“I’m fine,” he clears his throat. “And you?” _Oh fuck_ it’s so awkward. If the world could open up and swallow him whole, he would never complain again.

“Ah, likewise. Just doing some grocery shopping,” He smiles his fakest smile, and Hajime fights a wince. It never used to be this way.

“Right,” he trails off. Tobio doesn’t seem to notice the tension in the air between the two men, which isn’t all that surprising. A room could be on fire and Tobio still would be too absorbed in whatever he was doing. It’s more a surprise than anything he spotted Oikawa in the first place.

“My name is Tobio!” He leans so far out of his seat that Hajime instinctively darts out a hand to catch him, righting him immediately. “Why were you staring at Mama?” He’s starting to lean again. Hajime lets out a warning, _Tobio,_ before he straightens up.

“Oh,” Oikawa’s cheeks color, he sends Hajime a panicked look. “Well-ah, you see-” He seems to fight with himself on what to say. Hajime takes pity. After all, it wasn’t like Hajime really ever told him who Oikawa was.

“He’s a friend of Mama’s,” he tells him. Tobio’s eyes brighten.

“Really!” He gasps. “Like Uncle Makki and Uncle Mattsun?” He hears Oikawa suck in a sharp breath.

“Something like that,” he mutters. The line is moving up. Hajime counts his blessings.

“Look, Oikawa it’s been nice but-” he waves a hand forward, gesturing to his spot at the checkout.

“I- right. Yea. See you around Iwaizumi,” he gives another stunningly fake smile before turning to his own line.

They don’t speak after check out, with Oikawa finishing with his tiny basket long before Hajime and his cart full, but he does send an awkward wave over his shoulder when Tobio shouts, “Goodbye!” to his retreating back. Hajime shushes him, apologizing to their cashier, a young girl probably in high school that coos sweetly at his son. He tends to have that effect on people.

Tobio babbles about Oikawa, i.e. _The Tall Man_ for the entire walk back to the car, asking all kinds of questions like, “can I call him Uncle?” and “does he like tofu like mama?” and “can he come for dinner?” To which Hajime answers, “no, no, and _no_.” Tobio pouts as he clicks him into his car seat, unsatisfied with his short responses. He looks ready to ask more questions when Hajime closes the door on him. A little mean, he’ll admit, but he doesn’t think he can handle anymore invasive questions. He takes a moment just to breathe, pressing a fist to his forehead.

It clicks then, _why_ Oikawa might be in town.

The National Team roster was just announced for the 2020 Olympics.

And Hajime starts his job as the National Team’s Athletic trainer on Monday.

“Oh _fuck.”_

***

First thing Hajime does, before he even bothers to put away the groceries, is check the National roaster that was sent to him weeks ago. And sure enough, right next to Miya Atsumu is Oikawa Tooru: HT: 186 cm, WT: 82.6 kg, Position: S.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Hajime begins to pace, pacing while putting away groceries mindlessly. Tobio had scampered off to his room as soon as they walked in the door, claiming he wanted to color. Hajime let him go. He had more pressing matters to attend to, like confirming why his ex-best friend that he’s known since he was Tobio’s age, thought to have left behind Japan forever, is in Tokyo.

He doesn’t even realize he’s muttering under his breath until Tobio says, “Mama’s being silly.” He’s giggling and the comment clearly isn’t directed at him. He peaks behind the open noodle cabinet to see that Tobio had wandered into the kitchen, sitting at the little corner island on a stool, spinning himself back and forth on the spinny chair, despite Hajime's constant insistence that he _not_ do that. In his hand is Hajime’s cellphone that _should have_ been in his pocket. A slap to his empty back pocket, coupled with the tinny laughter he can hear coming from his phone proves otherwise.

“ _Tobio,”_ he gapes at his son. “Who are you even talking to right now?”

“Uncle Makki,” he says, all smiles like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Hajime’s life got infinitely harder the day Tobio figured out how to work his phone. He’s never known peace since.

“Uncle Mak- Gimme that!” He swipes the phone out of his hand, ignoring another giggle Tobio lets out. Sure enough, onscreen is none other than Hanamaki Takahiro. Tobio climbs onto the counter to get a better look at the screen, waving at his uncle.

“Hanamaki,” he sighs. “Which one of you taught him how to FaceTime people?”

Hanamaki laughs. “That was one-hundred percent Issei. I had nothing to do with it.” He hears a muffled _Hey!_ in the background, accompanied by thundering steps. Then Matsukawa’s face is smooshing next to Hanamaki’s.

“I’ll have you know that _Hiro_ was the one who suggested it!”

“But he asked who _taught_ him how to do it, which was you.”

“Well, you watched me do it. That makes you an accomplice, babe.”

“Oh so you admit to the crime-”

“Maybe,” Hajime juts in, letting his Mom Voice™ inflect a bit. “I should just stop letting Tobio over unsupervised.”

Both Hanamaki and Matsukawa gasp, looking equally betrayed.

“You _wouldn’t,”_ Hanamaki says, scandalized.

“Yea, Mama. You _wouldn’t._ ” Tobio says, not actually knowing what’s going on. He’s got a penchant for parroting anything Hanamaki says that sounds remotely dramatic.

Matsukawa snorts a laugh, ducking out of the camera to hide his cackles. Hanamaki doesn’t, laughter bursting out of him like it does every time.

Hajime rolls his eyes. He truly never would. Tobio loves his uncles and his uncles love him tenfold. Hanamaki and Matsukawa have been by his side from the moment he found out he was having him. They’re practically his second parents. And really, he owes them everything.

But it’s the principle of having your own son turn against you.

Their laughter dies, and Matsukawa enters the screen again, wiping tears from his eyes.

“So,” Matsukawa starts, a lazy grin now spreading across his face. “Little Tobio was just telling us about the _Tall Man_ at the grocery store.” Beside him, Hanamaki is wiggling his eyebrows. That makes Tobio perk up. Hajime groans. He really should have seen this one coming.

Product of Tobio discovering modern technology that is talking on the phone, he now calls his uncles with _everything._ A week ago, it was to tell them about the puzzle he solved. A few days ago, it was to tell them that Hajime had fallen asleep during his favorite movie. Yesterday, it was to tell them that he didn’t like the tea Hajime made before bed. Anything useless and trivial his uncles are knowing about it.

“Oh _yea,”_ Tobio says like he forgot. “He smelled good too! Like the Christmas Tree Mama got! And the Ocean!” Hajime raises an eyebrow at his son. He didn’t realize how quickly his sense of smell was developing if he can discern small variations in pheremones at three.

Tobio is an Omega, like Hajime, and his sense of smell will develop faster and sharper than the other sub-genders, a biological edge all Omegas have. Typically, Omegas are capable of pinpointing where a scent is, as well as the emotion tied behind the scent. He knows when Tobio is having a bad day before Tobio even realizes it’s a bad day. It’s not a foolproof system by any means, but Hajime knows a scent blind Omega is usually a dead one.

“A Christmas tree?”

“The ocean?”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa speak at the same time. They exchange a look with each other as Tobio nods sagely, putting his chin in the crevice of his thumb and forefinger, a gesture Hajime _knows_ he picked up from Matsukawa. He looks to Hajime for approval. He’s mostly right, missing the soft, chocolatey sweet undertones that aren’t usually picked up.

(Hajime never missed it.)

“It was Oikawa,” he sighs, speaking now to the duo on the phone. He waits for any sort of surprise, and glowers when it doesn’t come.

“Well duh,” Matsukawa says. “We’re five months out from the Olympics.”

“And he’s on the team,” Hanamaki says. “Wait don’t tell me- _Hajime!”_

“I didn’t know,” he grumbles, putting his head down on the counter. Tobio gives him a pat.

The Wonder Duo erupts into laughter again.

“Iwaizumi, you’re the athletic trainer for the National Team. You should know this,” Matsukawa gasps in between his laughter.

“ _Look,”_ Hajime doesn’t whine. _He doesn’t._ “I haven’t really looked at the roster, okay? I’ve been busy.” He gestures to Tobio. It’s not a lie. Tobio starts at a new kindergarten in April, and he’s bouncing from making sure his athletic office is set up, while also making sure Tobio is up to date on all his shots and physicals. Knowing _who_ is on the team has been low on his list of priorities. He doesn’t _technically_ need to know who is who at the start of training in order to treat them. All he needs is file with all their previous and current injuries, which he _does_ have. Rapport can come later.

(Although, all through his collegiate and graduate programs, he prided himself on knowing all the names of his athletes.

But that was also before he had a kid. He has on more than one occasion been the victim of Mommy Brain™)

“Besides,” he continues, picking his head up from the counter. “I’ve got all weekend to learn their names.”

Hajime can count on one hand the number of times he’s truly been scared. And right now, with the twin looks Hanamaki and Matsukawa are giving him, a pit is forming in his stomach.

“About that,” there’s a knock on his door.

“We’re going out tonight.”

***

The thing about Iwaizumi, Takahiro has learned, is that you have to surprise him into things. He isn’t a stick in the mud, never has been, and has always put up with their shenanigans in one way or another.

Iwaizumi, by all accounts used to be just as feral and stupid as the rest of them.

Emphasis on _used to._

Ever since Tobio came about, getting Iwaizumi to do _anything_ outside of work or mom duties takes careful planning and precise execution. Him and Issei have it down to a science.

Admittedly, watching the dawning horror on Iwaizumi’s face as Tobio screeches, “ _Grammy!”_ is a little funny.

“I can’t believe you two,” he hisses into the phone, moving to greet his mother.

“Believe it sweetheart,” Issei drawls, shooting Takahiro a look that says, _will this work?_

God he hopes it does.

It hasn’t gotten past him that Iwaizumi has been more stressed lately, and he’s been asking more and more if they can watch Tobio. Not that either of them mind, not even close. In fact, Takahiro is _this_ close to saying fuck it and becoming a full time nanny for the kid.

(“Becoming a nanny would imply that Iwaizumi would have to start paying you to watch him,” Issei pointed out one night after Tobio had spent the afternoon with them. “And we can’t do that to him. Besides, working at a funeral doesn’t pay all the bills you know.”

“ _Ugh,”_ Takahiro groaned, flopping on top of his boyfriend as if he weighed nothing. “I hate it when you’re right.”)

But it’s blatantly obvious that this new athletic trainer gig is freaking him out, even if he won’t admit it. Not that Takahiro has any idea why. He’s seen first hand the way Iwaizumi cares for people. It’s what he does best. He’ll be ace at this job just as he is everything else.

“Keep us on the phone so we can say hi to your mom,” Takahiro demands, not wanting to lose him and allow him to weasel his way out. Trial and error has taught him that if left to his own devices, he can and will find a way to bow out, usually using his son as a riot shield against their plans.

But not this time.

No.

This time they _planned._

“Iwaizumi-san!” He greets when Iwaizumi’s mom enters the frame. She does that thing that all older parents of their generation do, snatches the phone right out of Iwaizumi’s hand, looking down at them with her readers perched low on her nose.

“Boys!” She smiles. They wave in unison. “Take care of my son tonight. Don’t be _too_ stupid.” Ah, spoken like a true Iwaizumi.

Issei gives her a lazy salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it Iwaizumi-san. Just a couple drinks to celebrate the new job.” Takahiro snickers at the flat look Iwaizumi-san gives him.

“Well be on our best behavior,” he tries, receiving the same flat look Issei did. Oh well, points for trying.

“It’s never best behavior with you three,” she tsks, earning an offended splutter from Iwaizumi in the background. If Takahiro were a betting man, he’d put his life, relationship, and the soul of his favorite pet fish that she’s talking about more than just a night out for drinks. He’s never asked, never wanted to pry, but he knows Iwaizumi’s parents didn’t take the initial news very well. (He’d shown up at their door late with a far away look in eyes, and they didn’t hesitate to usher him inside.)

Still, her eyes soften, the same green as her son’s. There’s a thank you in them. It makes Takahiro want to look away.

She’s thanking them for more than just the drinks.

(And he’s never, _ever_ needed a thank you, or wanted one for that matter. Iwaizumi tried once, when Tobio was one, and he was about to collapse from sheer exhaustion. That was before Issei moved to Tokyo with him, before he was super involved in Tobio’s life, because Iwaizumi was too stubborn to ask him for any help. He walked into his house, saw Tobio in his playpen and Iwaizumi passed out on the couch, and decided right then that he would do anything for either of them. They are family.)

The rest of the _Getting Tobio off to Grammy’s_ operation flies relatively smoothly, save for the moment Tobio realizes that his mom won’t also be staying at Grammy’s. For a moment, their plans teetered precariously on a needle point, its balance determined by the ability of a three year old to be apart from his mother for a night. Both Takahiro and Issei had stopped breathing, waiting for the verdict. One cry and it would’ve been over, a wasted trip for Iwaizumi-san, and a night of pixar movies and cheap cold beer on a couch for them.

(Which wouldn’t have been a terrible plan, all things considered. But Takahiro desperately wanted Iwaizumi out of the apartment where he could just be Iwaizumi Hajime, new athletic trainer for the Men’s National Volleyball Team, and not Iwaizumi Hajime, three year old mom.)

But then Tobio had said, “Can I call Mama later for a story?” And Takahiro felt the air rush back into his lungs.

A few hours later, he’s knocking on the Iwaizumi residence, three shots deep.

“I already regret this,” Hajime sighs before knocking back a shot of his own.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Issei slurs.

Takahiro doesn’t think they’ll regret _anything._

***

Hajime regrets everything.

He wakes up sandwiched between Matsukawa and Hanamaki, a horrible crick in his neck and an even nastier headache. Hanamaki isn’t faring much better, dangling halfway off the couch and halfway on Hajime. Matsukawa has the worst of it though, buried under the body weight of both Hanamaki and Hajime.

“Off,” he wheezes. He starts pushing at Hajime, who then starts pushing at Makki.

“Issei, you asshole, ‘m gonna puke if you keep doing that,” Hanamaki groans, flailing his arms to keep himself on the couch.

“I can’t _breathe_ down here. Move your ass, Iwaizumi.”

“I’m trying _-”_

“Hey _wait_ -”

Makki lands on the floor with a thud and a whine. Matsukawa takes an overly exaggerated breath, muttering, “ _sweet, sweet air,”_ under his breath.

Hajime gingerly sits up. He wants to roll his eyes, but his skull vehemently protests that. The thought of trying to stand makes his stomach roll.

“I’m dying,” Hanamaki whines from the floor.

“You’re hungover,” Hajime corrects.

“ _Dying.”_

They all go quiet, save for the sounds of continuous deep breaths, the kind taken to settle angry stomachs. Not that it helps. One moment later, Hanamaki is heaving himself upright, standing like a newborn born giraffe as he shuffles to the bathroom, slamming the door shut.

“Gross,” Matsukawa mutters. He hasn’t moved from where he initially sprawled.

“We’re getting too old for this shit,” Hajime grumbles. His head hurts so bad. He doesn’t think he’s been this hungover since college.

“We’re not built the way we used to be,” Matsukawa agrees, flinging an arm over his eyes.

“ _Oh my god,”_ Hanamaki gasps as he stumbles out of the bathroom. “We’re _twenty-seven,_ not seventy-seven.”

“Says the guy that just blew chunks in the bathroom.”

“Says the guy that can’t even _move_.”

Hajime tunes out their bickering, thinking on the night. His memories get hazy around the middle of the night. He remembers Hanamaki trying to ask him about Oikawa. He remembers downing his drink so he didn’t have to answer. He remembers being pulled onto the dance floor, unseen hands grabbing at his waist as he moved to the music. California taught him to dance. Japan appreciated it.

He doesn’t get much after that. He assumes they stumbled home, or caught a cab, passed out on the couch and here they are, aggressively hungover.

He sighs, sinking further into his couch. He can’t remember the last time he had a moment to himself to let loose the way he did. It was fun. He had _fun._

But like most things, fun time is over, and it’s back to business. Tobio will be back soon-

_Tobio will be back soon._

Hajime jerks upright, ignoring the pain in his head. “What time is it?”

“Uh,” Hanamaki fumbles for his phone. “8:50?”

“ _Shit,”_ he curses, “Tobio’s going to be back at 9!”

 _“Shit,”_ Hanamaki and Matsukawa say at the same time. Hajime takes a shower in record time, leaving enough time for Hanamaki and Matsukawa to wash the stretch of the club off them. He immediately starts up breakfast. He knows Tobio ate at his parents house, but his kid, much like himself, has a never ending pit for a stomach. There’s a knock on the door at 9 o’clock sharp, just as Hajime is cracking eggs into a bowl.

He opens it to his father, and he almost shuts it again.

“Mama!” The shower made him feel a little more alive, but not all that much. He nearly topples when Tobio runs straight into his legs. But still, he doesn’t hesitate to pick him up.

“Were you good?”

Tobio nods, biting his lip with barely contained excitement. “I didn’t even _cry!_ Grammy said I was the biggest boy!” He looks up at his father for confirmation. He nods once.

“Well,” Hajime says with a soft smile. “I’d say that deserves a reward.” Tobio gasps, doing his happy wiggle in his arms.

“You went out.” It’s not a question. His dad isn’t looking at Hajime though, but rather behind him.

“Uncle Makki! Uncle Mattsun!” Tobio tells him all he needs to know. Hajime sighs, setting Tobio down.

“Go to your uncles,” he mutters into his ear.

And then to his dad, “I did.”

“So that’s why we had to watch your kid.” Again, not a question. Just a simple statement that sets Hajime’s blood ablaze.

“Don’t,” Hajime hisses. “Not here.”

“Your mother couldn’t drop him off,” he explains. “She had to go into the shop. Some emergency with the vases.”

“Sorry you had to come all the way out,” he says flatly. His father blames him for a lot of things. The move to Tokyo he still hasn’t gotten over yet.

“Mama?” Tobio whimpers from behind him. Hajime glances back to see him in Matsukawa’s arms, looking apprehensively between his mom and grandfather. It takes Hajime a moment to realize he’s releasing **Protect** pheromones. It takes another to realize that Matsukawa and Hanamaki are releasing their own **Calm** pheromones. He shoots them a grateful look. They’re probably the reason Tobio isn’t crying.

All sub genders release pheromones. It's the basic biology of their species. However, Betas have the most control over their pheromones, working as the mediators typically between Alphas, Omegas, and even other Betas. Matsukawa and Hanamaki have gotten very good at releasing the right pheromones to keep Tobio calm-ish whenever Hajime starts to lose it.

He takes a breath, releases the tension in his shoulders, and lets the pheromones do their job.

“Would you like to stay for breakfast?” He offers the olive branch, the same he always does. His father declines, the same way he always does, and leaves without so much as a goodbye.

Breakfast is a quiet affair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His breath catches a little when he sees Oikawa. He looks good, Hajime realizes, now that he’s got a good look at him not in the presence of his son. His hair is effortlessly styled the same way it was in high school, but there’s something else to him. A lightness that wasn’t there before. Argentina has done more for him than his tan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy :)

He ends up not learning the names of his athletes. He spends the rest of his Sunday, after Hanamaki and Matsukawa bid him a goodbye with a squeeze to his shoulder, building a nest and cuddling Tobio in it. He needed it, after witnessing the altercation between him and his dad. So he makes a nest in front of the tv, putting on all of Tobio’s favorite movies and allowing his son to nuzzle into the scent glands on his neck, taking in all the comfort he can.

It was worth it, he thinks, as he catalogs each player that walks through the doors of the gym. The staff is lingering around, waiting for the team to gather so they can introduce themselves before retreating into the offices. Lucky for him, most of this “Monster Generation” he already knows, either in passing from high school, or from watching pro-league games.

His breath catches a little when he sees Oikawa. He looks good, Hajime realizes, now that he’s got a good look at him not in the presence of his son. His hair is effortlessly styled the same way it was in high school, but there’s something else to him. A lightness that wasn’t there before. Argentina has done more for him than his tan.

A crushing sense of pride fills his chest, a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long, _long_ time. But, he supposes, there’s always going to be a sense of pride with Oikawa, no matter how far they drift. The man had always been a force to be reckoned with. He wasn’t kidding when he told him he was the partner he could boast.

It doesn’t take long for Coach Hibarida to call the team over. The staff, coaches, athletic trainers, and everyone else behind the scenes begin to introduce themselves. He doesn’t recognize anyone except Kuroo Tetsurou, and that’s only because he remembers watching nationals from a computer in Oikawa’s room.

He feels like he’s in grade school again, introducing himself to a new class. He steps forward, clearing his throat. “Hello, I’m Iwaizumi Hajime. I’ll be your lead AT for the Games. I look forward to working with all of you.” and steps back. He feels a little giddy, looking into the crowd. If he tries hard enough, he thinks he can vaguely remember hearing most of their names. But the only ones he knows are Ushijima and Oikawa. Ushijima gives him a polite nod, and even a hint of a smile. He makes his way over to Hajime before he can slip into his office.

“Iwaizumi,” he says warmly. “Good to see you.”

“Likewise,” he gives him a grin. “How’s your dad?” They make small talk, a thing both of them are notoriously bad at. Running into Ushijima in California had been the biggest blessing in disguise Iwaizumi could have asked for. He was homesick, alone in a foreign country, and seeing a familiar face had been everything he needed. Not to mention he got to meet Ushijima’s dad, the man that took him in and mentored him. They kept in touch after that.

“How old is Tobio now?” He asks.

“Three,” Hajime says, a small smile creeping on his face.

“Getting big,” Ushijima hums. Ushijima only got to see Tobio when he was about one, before he was off to Poland.

“I know,” he sighs, thinking about how big he’s getting already. “He starts kindergarten in April.” Ushijima’s eyebrows raise.

“Well then, about time to get a volleyball in his hands, wouldn’t you say?” He’s joking, Hajime knows, but he can’t say he wasn’t thinking the same thing. Right now, Tobio has taken a liking to T-ball, after a trip to the park with Matsukawa.

(When asked why not volleyball, Matsukawa claimed the size of the ball made him nervous.

“I thought he was going to trip and brain himself on the concrete,” Matsukawa shrugged with a sheepish look on his face.

Hajime still makes fun of him for it.)

He’s shaking his head and waving Ushijima off to practice when he feels eyes on him, and this time, he isn’t surprised to see Oikawa watching him. There’s an odd look on his face. He’s not glaring, but he doesn’t look pleased either. Hajime gives him his best, _what_ look. Oikawa blinks, physically shaking his head like it will shake the expression off his face. Again with the fake grins and waves. Hajime can’t help himself. He rolls his eyes. They might not be friends anymore, but that doesn’t mean Hajime can’t tell when he’s putting on his masks.

(And it stings, just a bit, to think that Oikawa used to drop all his masks for him. The good, the bad, the ugly.)

Without looking back, he heads into his office. Everything is organized just the way he likes it, all his files are in order of position. He’s got a picture of Tobio blowing a bubble with a checkered baby bucket hat that he’s pretty sure Hanamaki took on his desk, along with another picture of himself with Tobio fast asleep on his chest that he’s also pretty sure Hanamaki took. They’re his favorite pictures of him.

It doesn’t take long for the athletes to begin filtering into the training room. They take heat packs and come to him for stretches all a blur of thirty minutes. He’s already used up twelve pages of his notebook, jotting down everything Sakusa tells him about his wrists, making a note to check Suna’s hip alignment after practice, and to go over his back stretches. Bokuto said he tweaked his shoulder before selection, reluctant to tell him it wasn’t volleyball related, but rather because he scrambled out of bed to get away from a spider. His mate was _not_ happy, or so he’s told. He listens and writes and jots down little personal things to remember, like that Aran’s mother’s birthday is coming up. And that Atsumu has a twin that owns an onigiri shop and that everyone _better get their asses in there after practice because Samu has a special surprise for y’all._ Hajime won’t go. He needs to get home to Tobio, but he’ll remember to ask Atsumu about it.

He even went ahead and made himself a chart of all the Alphas, Betas and Omegas on the team. The ratio is 8:9:6 Alpha:Beta:Omega. A fair ratio, more even than Hajime thought it would be, but not entirely surprising. There was a big push when Hajime was in middle school to get more Omegas to join the sports teams. And seeing as how Sakusa was one of the top three aces his second year, Suna was a starter on a nationally ranked high school team, Yaku is an internationally known libero, and all three of them are here on Japan’s Olympic team, he’d say the push was rather successful. The higher number of Betas will be good too. They’ll be able to keep everyone in check better on the court.

He’s got his supplies, separated by the genders and for a moment, he’s back in high school, Head Omega and fretting. He wonders, briefly, if professional teams do the Head Alpha, Beta, Omega system. He doubts it. In high school it was just a way of maintaining order, and a way for the younger members to have someone to go to with all their dynamic problems. Although in high school, it was Hajime getting the brunt end of everyone’s problems. Oikawa was Oikawa, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa played _rock, paper, scissors_ every week and then promptly forgot who was supposed to be Head Beta for the week, sending their first years on a wild goose chase after the other. He snorts a little at the memory. And they wondered why he was so grouchy in high school.

Besides, they’re all adults here. Right?

He thinks about who is on the team.

Maybe not.

Mentally, he begins assigning. The Alphas feel rather straightforward. His guts tells him Aran or Ushijima are his best options, and wishes them the best of luck with the other Alphas. Whoever decided to put Miya Atsumu and Oikawa Tooru on the same team should be commended for recognizing skill, but fired for recognizing personality. He pities them just a bit. The Omegas probably won’t talk to each other. Given how in depth and precise Sakusa was while telling him all about his hypermobility, he guesses Sakusa has his own way of doing things, and doesn’t like to stray far from that. Sakusa also doesn’t like people he doesn’t know. That also became very apparent. Suna is a vessel for chaos. He turned his back for one moment, and Suna had his phone out, recording Atsumu doing something stupid. He had to swiftly remind everyone that recording within the training room is _strictly prohibited._ Yaku on the other hand, might just appointment himself Head Omega and tell everyone to deal with it. He and Yaku will probably get on nicely. He doesn’t know much about the Betas. None of them came in before practice. But he doesn’t trust Komori’s eyebrows.

But all in all, he thinks this bunch will be okay. Sure, there are a lot of personalities, but something tells him all they need is to find the right gear, and they’ll take off. And he can’t wait.

***

The end of practice comes in a flurry much like the beginning, only worse. He’s got a lot of people vying for his attention, asking him to make ice bags, asking him to stretch this and that. He keeps an eye on the athletes in the ice baths, making sure they don’t stay in there too long. He’s so very thankful for his assistant ATs. They take care of the ice bags and setting players up with the cold pads, while he worries about more of the advanced stuff, like needling and cupping.

And just like the wave crashes in, it also goes back out, quick as it comes, it’s gone in a blink. He’s tidying up a few administrative details for the night, waiting for the last stragglers to pop in if they need him. Most of the team has gone home. But he can hear the pounding of volleyballs and figures the setters probably stuck around for more practice with their hitters. Part of him wants to go watch. Badly.

But he’s got work to do.

And he needs to wait to make sure the others in the gym don’t over do it. It’s only the first day practice as the National Team after all. He’ll go kick them out if they aren’t already packing up in thirty minutes.

With two minutes to spare he hears Atsumu’s delighted, “Iwa-san! You stayed!” followed up by Bokuto’s “Hey, hey hey!” and Sakusa’s long suffering sigh.

_Iwa-san?_

“Don’t call me that. And of course I did. I'm your AT I can’t leave until you leave,” he gives them a pointed look.

“Aw don’t look at me like that,” Atsumu pouts. “We weren’t even the only ones!”

Bokuto nods enthusiastically. Sakusa sighs and pulls up his face mask.

“Miya just tell him what you need so we go?” There isn’t a lot of inflection to his tone, Hajime notes, but he does sound different when he’s talking to Atsumu. He files that away for later.

“Fine, fine. My finger hurts.”

“Your finger hurts?’

“Yea my finger hurts.”

Hajime resists the urge to pinch his nose. “And you played with your finger hurting?”

“Hm well I jammed it in practice.”

“You jammed it in practice, and you didn’t come get me?”

“Well I didn’t want to bother ya and it didn’t seem like a big deal…”

This time Hajime does pinch the bridge of his nose. “Atsumu let me make one thing crystal clear. It is quite literally my job to be bothered by these things. Now let me see your finger.” Atsumu sticks out his pointer finger. Hajime presses lightly against the joints, feeling for any sort of displacement or irregularities. He asks him to open and close his hand a few times, judging his mobility and pain.

“You’re fine,” he says with an air of finality. “Minimal swelling and no bruising. Mobility looks fine. Probably just a light sprain. We’ll tape it, and you’ll be good.”

Atsumu beams. “See there Omi-kun, nothing to worry about.” It’s hard to tell behind the mask, but Hajime is pretty sure he’s blushing.

“You’re an idiot, Miya,” he grumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets, but makes no move when Atsumu puts an elbow on his shoulder. It doesn’t have it’s desired effect, given their height difference. Hajime rolls his eyes.

“I’ll go get you a bag of ice before you go. You two need anything?” He directs the question to Bokuto and Sakusa. Both shake their heads.

He returns with a small bag of ice for Atsumu, and orders to let him know if the pain gets any worse, and to keep it mobile through the night. He’s not particularly worried about it. He’s seen far worse.

Finally, he’s alone.

He can’t hear anything from the courts, so he assumes everyone is gone. Glancing at the clock he’s relieved that it’s only 7, earlier than he thought it was. It gives a little more time to insert all his data from today, especially now that he needs to add an injury, no matter how small to his log.

He gets a little absorbed in his work and jumps a little when there’s a knock on his door.

“Ah, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Standing at his door, freshly showered, is Oikawa.

“You didn’t,” he lies. “What do you need?”

Oikawa doesn’t say anything. He’s looking at the pictures on his desk, and Hajime gets the weird urge to cover them.

“Oikawa?” Now _he’s_ the one that startles. He blinks.

“Sorry what?”

“I asked if there was anything you needed?”

He shakes his head. He’s leaning casually against the door, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes drift back to the pictures of Tobio. He wants to snap at him. To tell him to go home, get some rest for tomorrow. To tell him to stop standing there like an idiot. To say something, _anything._

He throws him a bone. He’s not sure why he does it. Maybe to be polite. Maybe because he misses him. Maybe he still loves him. It’s not as if he’s suddenly stopped thinking about Oikawa. It’s not as if they part ways, and with that parting went his love for the man. Annoying, to think, that feelings he thought he got over in his absence, where just dormant, waiting for the man himself to return.

He knew in high school he loved him.

He doesn’t know what he feels now.

“You can ask,” he gestures to the pictures of his son. “It’s okay.”

He expects the typical, _how old is he, what’s his name again, is he in school yet?_

What he gets is: “Who’s the father?”

“Oh my god,” he says, stunned. He knows Oikawa knows he doesn’t have a mate. There’s no mark and no obvious scent change to suggest otherwise.

“ _Oh my god,”_ Oikawa wheezes. He looks like he didn’t mean to say it, like the words grew consciousness and flew out on their own. Hajime might’ve laughed, if shock still wasn’t taking residence in the forefront of his emotional cortex.

“I meant- I just- I’m- I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” he looks frantic, pressing his hands together in apology.

Surprise leaks out of his system to be replaced by exasperation. He can’t help it. He snorts, shaking his head with a wry smile.

“Good to know you’re still the same piece of shit you’ve always been.”

“ _Mean,”_ he whines, sagging against the door. His face is still apologetic. “I really am sorry. That was… wildly inappropriate.”

“It’s fine,” Hajime waves him off. It was, no doubt, wildly inappropriate. You don’t just _ask_ a single parent where the other parent is. But it is a little refreshing, in that terrible sort of way, from the usual judgemental stares and backhanded, _his father must be so proud_ he usually gets. And this is Oikawa. He’s been weak against him since he was four.

“It’s really not. Let me try again,” he thinks for a moment. “Does he like bugs the way you did?” That surprises a laugh out of him.

“No,” he shakes his head, smiling at the memory. “There was a lady bug in his room the other day and he was inconsolable for an hour.”

Oikawa laughs as well, a slight shake in his shoulders, hand covering his mouth. “Good. Iwa-chan’s fascination with bugs was simply disgusting.”

“It was not!” He says, affronted. “And bugs are _cool.”_

“They’re _gross.”_

“You talk a big game for someone that believes in _aliens.”_

“Aliens exist! You can’t tell me that we’re the _only_ life form in the solar system!”

“Sure I can. Aliens don’t exist,” he almost wants to stick his tongue out at him.

“ _Iwa-chan!”_

It’s childish. So childish. And yet Hajime feels lighter than he has in _years._ It’s startling really, just how quickly they fall back into their old routines, bantering back and forth, like they picked up exactly where they left off.

Except.

Except that’s not where they left off.

Oikawa seems to realize it too, giving him a tight smile.

“Go home, Oikawa,” Hajime says softly. “I need to lock up.”

He nods, waves his goodbye and turns to leave. Hajime doesn’t waste any time. He has to go relieve Hanamaki of his babysitting duties, and he’s been on his feet or hunched over his desk all day. He wants to go home, cuddle his son if he allows it, and pass out.

He’s slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder, ensuring that, yes, his laptop is in there. He fumbles for his keys, digging around in his bag for them.

He smells Oikawa before he sees him.

“I thought I told you to go home,” he says with a frown, not looking up from his bag. Finally he secures his keys.

“Same sharp nose as always, huh, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime levels him a flat look. He raises his hands in surrender, an easy grin on his face. Hajime isn’t going to tell him that he’s honed into his scent and probably always will be. All at once though, like a switch had been flipped, he looks nervous. He looks like he's psyching himself up. He looks a little like the day-

“Can we catch up?” He blurts, looks everywhere except Hajime.

“What?”

“You know, like _catch up_?”

“I _know_ what ‘catch up’ means,” he growls with an eye roll. “ _Why?”_

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“Look,” Hajime sighs. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. “If it’s just because you found out I have a kid-”

“ _What!”_ He shrieks, his voice echoing through the empty gym. “ _Ew! What!_ God _no! Ugh!”_ He accentuates all of his exclamatives with a visible shudder and a wretch. “ _Why_ would you even say that?!”

Hajime waits until he’s done being the literal most dramatic being on the planet before grumbling, “Wouldn’t be the first Alpha to try it.”

“ _Ugh._ What kind of _knothead_ do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen you in ten years,” Hajime shrugs. He doesn’t actually think Oikawa is a knothead. He doesn’t have the capability. His reaction is a little funny though.

“That’s my point! I-” he sighs. “Please don’t make me say it.”

“Oh I think I want to make you say it,” Hajime grins, folding his arms over his chest. Oikawa whines, high pitched and so very un-Alpha like.

People used to make comments, little jabs here and there that their dynamics were switched at birth. Hajime doesn’t think so. Sure, he wouldn’t consider himself to be the best of Omegas, in terms of the societal view of Omegas, but there really isn’t a better example of the Alpha mind-set than Oikawa that Hajime could think of.

He was born to lead, domineering in that special way of his that got you fired up before you realized what was happening. He’s never outwardly aggressive, or over the top with it. His aggression is quieter, coupled with expert verbal blows and cool gazes.

Oikawa has always been a special type of Alpha.

He deflates, a pout securing itself on his lips. “Fine. I miss you okay?”

It’s a funny thing, being told _I miss you_ by the man he’s been in love with for the better half of his life. It’s an even funnier thing to realize that he misses him right back.

But the funniest thing is that neither of them ever bothered to pick up the phone.

There’s no mask this time, when he meets Oikawa’s gaze. Nothing except the harsh reality of what _I miss you_ means.

Hajime’s heart tumbled out of his chest at the age of 14, on the cusp of his first Heat, when Oikawa smiled a genuine smile, and he went _oh, I like that smile._

Hajime scooped up his battered, bleeding heart, and cradled it back into his chest at the age of 18, on the cusp of a new era, one he thought they would face together.

Hajime’s heart wants to take another tumble out of his chest at the age of 27, on the cusp of a new job and a familiar face, and he stifles it back, locking in a glass fortress that’s sure to shatter.

(When will he learn that his poor heart never stood a chance?)

“If it makes you uncomfortable,” Oikawa starts, but Hajime doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want Oikawa to treat him like he’s new, like he’s something fragile. Maybe his heart is, but he’s not.

“Let’s get coffee,” he says.

Surprise flashes across his face before it’s replaced with a smile, that same genuine smile.

( _You’re a fool,_ his heart whispers.)

“Coffee it is, then.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And then, I was sent an invite. For the Olympic team. And I still almost didn’t show up,” his voice goes soft. He quirks a side of his lip up, looking at Hajime with another wistfully sad look. “I saw your name on the staff. And I thought, maybe this is a sign. Or a chance. Or you’d tell me to fuck off and the next five months would have been awkward as hell.” He laughs, but there’s not much humor behind it. The lump in his throat grows, but the ten years between them shrinks in this tiny coffeeshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I hope everyone's had a good start to the New Year! Here's a new chapter to kick us off!

It’s not until he gets home that he realizes that he not only let Oikawa call him ‘Iwa-chan’ once, but _three times._ He closes the door with a sigh, slipping his bag off his shoulders.

Weak.

Weak, weak, weak.

“Hey, hey! It’s the working man!” Hanamaki calls from the kitchen.

“Not that you would know what that’s like- _ack!”_

“Low blow, Issei.”

Hajime laughs, shaking his head, and enters the kitchen. Matsukawa is holding his side gingerly, where Hanamaki presumably hit him. Tobio is working on a puzzle at the table, tongue peeking out from the side of his mouth, a trait he got from his mom. Hajime is pleased to see he’s been bathed, in his pajamas, ready for bed. It’s only 7:45, a little earlier than his usual bedtime, but it means he’s been fed, and Hajime doesn’t have to worry about dinner.

“Sit, sit,” Hanamaki ushers, shoving a glass of whiskey in one hand, and a steaming plate in the other. “I made your favorite curry.”

“Because that’s all he knows how to make,” Matsukawa snickers.

“It’s like you’re _asking_ to sleep on the couch tonight,” Hanamaki hisses, going to hit him in the same spot as before. Only this time, Matsukawa sees the attack and jumps away. The commotion forces Tobio’s attention away from his puzzle, head raised with a look of displeasure on his face, ready to tell his uncles to _stop being silly._ Silly, in Tobio’s vocabulary, is the equivalent to _stupid_. But the displeasure melts from his face when he notices Hajime standing there, eyes lighting up immediately.

“Mama!” He scrambles to stand in his chair like he does every time Hajime comes home. He’s learned now, to put down everything in his hands and prepare for the airborne strike that is his son. Shoving the plate and whiskey back into Hanamaki’s waiting hands, he snags Tobio, curling him up high over his head before pulling him down to pepper kisses across his cheeks, smiling at the peals of laughter.

There was a time when Hajime would have been embarrassed to be so openly affectionate with his son. His own mom and dad were not overly affectionate people, and truthfully neither is Hajime. He prefers gentle jabs and soft punches to the shoulder as his way of saying, _I love you, I’m here, and I love you,_ and he used to receive that in return, with smacks to the back that said, _I love you too._

Maybe it’s a single parent thing. Maybe it’s because Hajime read so many parenting books before Tobio that all said different things and made his head spin. Maybe it’s because learned what the word _touch starved_ meant and never wanted his son to experience it.

But Matsukawa made an off hand comment about the way Tobio likes to cling to him, and Hajime realized Tobio was clinging to his uncles because he wasn’t clinging to _him,_ and made an immediate change.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki coo at him from behind. If he had the hands for it, he would flip the both of them off.

Tobio’s giggles die down and he immediately puts his face into Hajime’s neck, scenting him for all that he’s worth. It’s Tobio’s favorite form of comfort.

Tobio shoves his nose harder into Hajime’s neck, and it takes him a moment to realize why.

“Mama smells bad,” Tobio whines. He’s looking for Hajime’s scent, and only finding artificial fresh linens from the scent patch on his neck.

All medical staff are required to wear scent patches. Players and coaches technically aren’t. It would be against Volleyball Association regulations to require the players to wear blockers regularly. Most do for sake of ease, and any player experiencing Pre/Post Rut or Heat symptoms are required to wear them for the comfort of everyone else around them. But on the daily? They are not. The medical staff only has to so their own scents don’t disrupt any diagnosis, or cause a false diagnosis.

“Mama does not smell _bad,”_ he grumbles, offended at being called smelly. He smells _artificial._ There’s a difference. He pulls Tobio away from his neck, reaching up to rip the adhesive off his neck. Tobio looks at it like it’s personally offended him.

He can hear Matsukawa and Hanamaki laughing at him. Bastards.

“They’re called scent patches,” he explains. “They keep Mama’s scent from being smelled.” They also keep other scents off him. But Tobio probably won’t understand what that means, and Hajime doesn’t want to bother with explanations.

“I don’t like them.” Tobio wrinkles his nose as the last of the synthetic scent gives way to Hajime’s natural scent.

“You don’t have to like them, but I still need to wear them.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the rules,” he gives Tobio a hard look. It’s the _because I said so,_ look. Tobio does not like this look. It’s his least favorite look. He hides his face back in Hajime’s neck, taking a deep lungful of air before relaxing, going boneless against him.

“I don’t like the rules,” he mumbles. Hajime hums. He can’t say he doesn’t disagree. Scent patches tend to be uncomfortable, and studies have shown that masking scents for too long can lead to subduation in scents, making it difficult to mate or form connections with family and others. It’s why Hajime only has to wear them when he’s around the athletes.

Tobio relaxes further, letting the calming scent wash over him, soothing him. “Are you ready for bed?” He feels Tobio nod against his neck.

Hanamaki gives him a look, silently asking, “ _do you want help?”_ But Hajime just shakes his head. This is the longest Hajime has been away from Tobio in a single day in a long time. Before, his jobs were as assistant athletic trainer, not lead, so he got to duck out early. They were especially understanding when they found out he had a baby. But now he’s got a lot more responsibility to handle, which means later nights and less time around Tobio.

They both need this.

“I’ll be out in a second,” he whispers to them, hiking Tobio up higher on his hip. Tobio’s night routine is fairly simple. He does a little wiggle as he brushes his teeth, dancing to the jangling tunes coming from his toothbrush. He spits when Hajime tells him to spit, brushing for the allotted two minutes before bearing his teeth at Hajime “to inspect”, waiting for the “all clean”. He doesn’t know when or why Tobio started doing that, but one night, Hajime was watching him brush his teeth, and he turned to him and asked, “Mama all clean?” and they’ve been doing it ever since.

Typically, Tobio gets into bed and demands a minimum of three stories. Tonight is different. Tonight Tobio tugs on his hand until he lies down next to him, Tobio curling into his chest.

“Did you have fun with your uncles,” he asks, sweeping a hand down and up his back. Tobio nods. He’s not being very talkative tonight. Tobio isn’t an overly talkative child to begin with, unless something excites him.

“I thought you were gonna be gone forever,” Tobio whispers.

Oh.

That hurts a bit.

“Tobio, we talked about this. I have to work now. Just like before.”

“But you were gone _forever_ this time _,”_ he whines, and Hajime huffs a laugh.

“It’s not _forever,”_ he teases. “I came back so it can’t be forever.”

He pouts, but lets it go, seeking out his mother’s comfort. Hajime hums a soft tune against his ear.

Because someone up above took pity on him, Tobio is an easy sleeper. Falling asleep quick and easy most days. And soon enough, he’s out. Hajime slips out of his bed, tucking him in tightly, and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’ll always come back,” he murmurs. “Always.”

Tobio sighs and sinks further into his pillow.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki are waiting for him when he steps out of Tobio’s room. His curry and whiskey are once again thrust into his hands.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, slinking into the kitchen chair. He feels his entire body deflate. First days are always the best and worst. The excitement of starting something new, something he’s been working towards, while simultaneously having new information thrown at him constantly leaves him exhausted.

“Soooooo,” Matsukawa starts, dragging out his syllables while Iwaizumi eats. “First day. How’d it go?”

“Long,” he answers through a bite. Matsukawa shoots him a deadpan stare. “Good,” he amends, but it isn’t much better.

He was going to give them a real answer, something more substantial when Hanamaki juts in, “How was Oikawa?”

“I thought we were going to work up to that,” Matsukawa mutters. Hanamaki shushes him.

Hajime huffs and rolls his eyes. “He was _Oikawa.”_ Like that answers it. Matsukawa nods sagely. He gets it. But Hanamaki just blinks at him, expectant.

He sighs. “We’re getting coffee.”

Matsukawa’s eyebrows shoot up.

“ _What!”_ Makki cries. It’s too loud. He immediately claps a hand over his mouth. All three glance in the direction of Tobio’s room. Tobio goes down easy, that is true, but he doesn’t always sleep like the dead. Sometimes, Hajime swears the smallest noise will take him up, or he’ll sleep through a hurricane. There’s no inbetween with that kid.

After a few moments, Hajime deems them in the clear. He gives Hanamaki an unimpressed stare. At least he has the decency to look sheepish.

“He wants to catch up,” he tells them, finishing his dinner. It was good. Hanamaki is getting domestic. He’ll tease him for it later, Mr. I’m Not the Domestic Type.

“And you said yes?” Matsukawa asks.

“Of course I did,” Hajime takes a sip of his whiskey, something strong and woody. He makes a face. He’s never been good with the ‘sipping’ types of alcohol.

“Oh right. Of course you did. How stupid of me to think otherwise,” he deadpans. Hajime curls his lip at him, shaking his head in a mocking gesture.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Hanamaki asks, concern etched into his face, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s _Oikawa,”_ Hajime stresses.

Hanamaki raises his hands in surrender, but still there’s still unease in his expression. “You’re the one that said you haven’t talked in like ten years.”

“Yea. That’s why he wants to catch up.”

“And it’s not because he knows about-”

“ _No._ I asked him that. He said no. Insistently.”

Matsukawa snorts. Hanamaki’s assuaged, leaning back in his seat with his hands folded over his stomach.

They finish their whiskey, slamming it back in one go the way it isn’t designed for as tribute to a first day done. Hajime doesn’t think any sort of celebration is necessary, but Matsukawa hits him lightly on the shoulder and tells him to accept it.

“You’re twenty-seven years old, and you’re the National Team’s athletic trainer. That’s more impressive than you think it is,” he says. A blush threatens up his neck, and he quickly takes his plate to the sink.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki don’t stay long after that. They can tell their friend is tired, a long day that is only going to get longer if they stick around. They wave goodbye, heading out into the chilly February air.

Hajime himself doesn’t stay up for much longer, either. He gets Tobio’s day bag ready, so he doesn’t have to do it in the morning, full of all his favorite toys and snacks. He’ll be going over to Hanamaki’s tomorrow, as opposed to Hanamaki coming over.

His own night routine is a blur, and his out before his head hits the pillow.

***

They don’t actually get coffee until weeks later. To be fair, they never made any sort of concrete plans to begin with, and unfortunately, or fortunately, they have to work around Hajime’s schedule. Oikawa’s schedule is the easy one, and Hajime already knows what Oikawa’s schedule is. His own, however, changes everyday. He never knows when his athletes are going to sign up for individual sessions. Some throw their names into the spreadsheet last minute, and he’s forced to change plans.

Oikawa doesn’t seem to mind. Hajime does feel bad, he does. But Oikawa waves him off every time.

“We have plenty of time,” he’ll say. And that’s that.

It’s suspiciously compliant.

There’s reprieve though, a few weeks later, when he doesn’t have any athletes signed up for therapy in between practices. They meet at a cute little coffee shop near the training center, nestled in between two huge corporate buildings. Oikawa claims to have found it on a walk in between practices, as he leads Hajime to their destination. He babbles as he walks, talking about Argentina, all the people he’s met and the food he’s tried. He talks about the differences, how being home is weird, but the good kind of weird, like tasting your favorite food after not having it for a long time. Hajime doesn’t contribute much to the conversation, letting him talk and go off tangents, getting distracted just the way he used to on their walks home from school and practice. A pang goes through his chest.

“Ah sorry,” Oikawa cuts himself off, halfway during a rant about the differences in rice from Argentina and Japan. Hajime blinks at him, eyebrow raised in question. “I’m rambling.” He’s embarrassed, hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

Hajime is silent for a moment. He considers Oikawa behind him. He’s stopped walking, cheeks flushed in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. Oikawa has always been a bit of a rambler, and Hajime has always been happy to let him, listening to the stream of his thoughts. A rambling Oikawa is also an Oikawa at his most ease, when he’s just happy to talk and talk and talk about whatever is on his mind.

“Don’t be,” he rolls his eyes. “It’s never stopped you before.”

A stunned look passes across his face, this one lingering. And Hajime supposes he deserves that. He’s brought up a forbidden word: _before._

They’ve never talked about it. About the Before. In the weeks that the National Team has begun to practice, Oikawa actually makes himself rather scarce, only ever coming in to bother Hajime for stretch clarification and ice. Sometimes, Hajime has to remind himself that this is not Oikawa Tooru, high school captain and setter, ready to overwork himself as a means of getting ahead, but rather Oikawa Tooru, Pro-League starting setter for Argentina. He doesn’t need the reminders to sleep and fuel properly. He’s learned to take care of himself, that much is evident.

But they don’t talk, save for occasional pleasantries that have never really been their style and feel stilted and awkward every time. It makes Hajime want to scream. He knows there’s ten years between them, knows that means things will be _different._ He just wishes it wasn’t _this_ different. Above all else, Hajime really does just want his best friend back.

“So Argentinian rice is better because-” he trails off, hoping Oikawa will pick up where he left off. He brightens considerably.

“ _The spices,”_ he sighs, like he can actually taste it. Oikawa continues on leading, Hajime meeting him step for step, pursing his lips to keep the small smile off his face.

***

The cafe is quaint. It’s a little after lunch rush, so seating is readily available. They order their coffees, a simple black coffee for Hajime and an overly sweet latte monstrosity for Oikawa. He ignores Oikawa’s exaggerated gagging from behind him, driving an elbow into his stomach (he does _not_ take note one how firm that stomach is).

“Like your order is any better,” he grumbles as they move to the end counter where their drinks will be. “It’s a cavity incarnate.”

“At least it has _flavor._ Black coffee is for boring people with boring jobs!”

“Have you considered that I am a boring person with a boring job?”

“Iwa-chan boring? Never,” he says it with such conviction that Hajime feels his cheeks heat. “And your job isn’t boring! You get to be around _me_ all day!” The heat disappears as quickly as it came. Oikawa tends to have that effect.

“Case in point,” he snorts. Oikawa squawks, rearing back offended. He opens his mouth to say something when their names are called. He’s going to grab his own drink, but Oikawa is faster, grabbing both drinks with a smile like he’s just won gold.

“Lead the way, Iwa-chan,” he gestures around the cafe.

“I can carry my own coffee, dumbass,” he says, but does as told, leading them to a booth next to the window, tucked away in the corner. Despite all the fangirls he used to have, and his genuine love for attention, when he’s focused on something, he doesn’t like being disrupted. Hajime assumes this hasn’t changed in the ten years they’ve been apart. He’s proven right when Oikawa chirps, “good choice”, meaning he was eyeing this table when they walked in and hoped Hajime would pick it.

And Hajime would. He did. Because despite the ten years between them, he knows him.

They sip their coffee in silence for a few moments, watching the people in the cafe. Had it been Before, Oikawa might have started to create stories. The old woman in the corner opposite of them is trying coffee for the first time, an alien from another planet trying to understand human customs. The man at the table adjacent has just opened a portal in his steaming mug of green tea and is gazing at an alternate version of himself. That child over there is going to attempt to find the secret to flying.

Instead, they sit in silence. They don’t know how to have conversation yet, not to the point where they can talk about everything and nothing all at once. Hajime wonders what people say about them. Two past friends, tethered by a rubber band, waiting for the snap, waiting for the band to give way, for the collision, for the moment they are thrown back together. He wonders what stories they come up with. He wonders if they’re happy. Are they sad? Are they somewhere in between, caught in the middle?

"How's Tobio?” Oikawa asks, carefully.

“He’s good,” he answers, launching into stories of Tobio’s latest misadventures. He doesn’t notice the soft looks Oikawa is giving him, or the fact that _he_ is the one taking over the conversation.

“And then! He decided to pour all of the bubble bath in while my back was turned,” Hajime rolls his eyes, downing the rest of his coffee. “I still don’t think all the studs are cleaned up. I keep slipping in the bathroom.” Oikawa is laughing with a hand placed over his mouth.

“Sounds like he knew exactly what he was doing,” he says through his giggles.

“Oh he so did, the little shit. Kept saying, ‘ _Mama bubble mountain. Mama bubble mountain!’_ like he wasn’t about to flood our apartment.”

Oikawa loses all pretenses of hiding his laughter, bowled over and carefree with his shoulders shaking. It’s a wonderful sight, not one that Hajime got to see often, especially in their later years of high school. Getting to see it now though, even at the expense of himself and his bathroom mishaps, send tingles down his spine.

“Should’ve guessed,” Oikawa straightens up, wiping away a tear from his eye. His smile goes teasing, but no less genuine, “that your kid would be just as much of a devil as you were.”

Hajime frowns. “I was not a devil. That was _you.”_

“Au contraire,” Oikawa raises his arms in an ‘x’. “Shall we recall the ‘Mud Pie Incident’ of ‘99?”

“Wait-”

“Or perhaps the ‘Great Beetle Escape’ in the classroom?”

“Oikawa-”

“No, actually if I remember correctly, it was _you_ that wanted to make a ‘pet hospital’ so you gathered up all the salamanders and newts you could find, and then proceeded to _lose_ them all over your house,” he finishes, far too smug for Hajime’s liking,

“Alright!” He snaps, face red. “So I did _some_ things-”

“Some!”

“But _you_ had your fair share of trouble too.”

“Sure did,” Oikawa agrees breezily. Hajime feels the vein in his forehead pulse. “But _I’m_ not the one with a kid here. You passed your deviancy on.”

Hajime deflates a little, because it’s not as if Oikawa is _wrong._ His mother didn’t like bubble baths. She found them too messy and a hassle. Hajime’s baths were never fun, never filled with toy boats or rubber ducks. His baths were quick and efficient with the sole purpose of cleaning. But, thinking back on it, maybe it’s a good thing there was never any bubble bath lying around. He’d probably be shouting _Mama bubble mountain!_ too.

“Well, I guess there’s no doubt he’s my son then,” he grumbles, defeated.

Oikawa snorts and shakes his head, polishing off his own coffee. There’s something wistful in his expression, something a little sad. Matsukawa used to joke, back in high school, that Iwaizumi must have a Phd in Oikawa’s microexpressions. “You always seem to know what he’s thinking,” he’d say. And Hajime used to shrug and say, “a life time of dealing with that idiot does that to a person.” It was more than that. They were in tune with each other. Sometimes, Oikawa would show up at his house uninvited because he had “a feeling”. He always demanded to know what that meant, but Oikawa never told him. Just shrugged and would ask him what’s up. Only then did Hajime realize he was stressing, whether it was a class or volleyball or his overall general existence, Oikawa was there before he even knew he needed him.

And maybe this is the snap he’s been waiting for. Maybe their rubber band has been pulled taunt enough. Maybe it’s time to let go.

He nudges him with his foot. A silent question.

He nudges him again, harder, when Oikawa doesn’t answer.

He pulls his leg back to actually kick him this time. “I- I just wish I could’ve been there. To see him grow up.” Hajime lowers his leg.

He blinks dumbly at him.

“He’s only three,” he says, unsure of what else to say.

“Yea, and that’s three years I missed!”

All at once, Hajime feels the rage bubble up inside him, burning through his very core. A rage he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“You wanna do this here,” it comes out more of a growl than anything. Oikawa gulps, eyes widening a fraction.

Hajimes doesn’t give him the chance to answer. “Because _you_ chose that. This was your choice. Not mine.”

“I know,” he says, quiet, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Hajime scoffs. He stands to throw away his cup, and to get away from Oikawa’s Sad Alpha scent he’s emitting. It’s distracting and makes Hajime want to sooth him.

But Oikawa, taking his movement to mean leaving, and juts a hand out to stop him, clasping onto his wrist.

“Hajime,” he pleads. “Let me apologize. Properly this time.”

Hajime immediately shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize, you know that. I never held it against you.”

“Not for that,” Oikawa’s pleading doesn’t let up. “You were right. I was the one that left. I got scared, and I left. Cut ties with everything here. Did you know, that I was about to naturalize myself. In Argentina?”

Hajime did not know that.

“And then, I was sent an invite. For the Olympic team. And I _still_ almost didn’t show up,” his voice goes soft. He quirks a side of his lip up, looking at Hajime with another wistfully sad look. “I saw your name on the staff. And I thought, maybe this is a sign. Or a chance. Or you’d tell me to fuck off and the next five months would have been awkward as hell.” He laughs, but there’s not much humor behind it. The lump in his throat grows, but the ten years between them shrinks in this tiny coffeeshop.

“I’d like to start over,” he says. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask-”

“You can,” Hajime cuts him off, clearing his throat. He sits gingerly back down.

Iwaizumi Hajime has been, from the age of four to the age of twenty-seven, always been a painfully weak man when it comes to all things Oikawa Tooru. The world will stop turning before that stops being true.

“Can we be friends again, Hajime?” The hope in his eyes is devastating.

“Like we ever really stopped, you idiot.”

Oikawa's smile is blinding. 

This time, Oikawa swipes their empty cups, standing to throw them away. There's a spring in his step, and a noticeably happier scent than before. 

And maybe hope isn't such a bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hang on a sec, kiddo,” is what he hears before the door is swinging open, moments after he knocks. Standing there, dressed in little overalls and a blush pink t-shirt is Tobio, blinking up at Tooru with dark eyes. 
> 
> Tooru finds himself staring right back. He really doesn’t look anything like Iwaizumi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I've been swamped for the past couple weeks. School is starting soon so updates will probably be more sporadic, sorry about that! 
> 
> Anyways I hope you all are doing well! 
> 
> Enjoy a new chapter! 
> 
> NOTE: there are mentions of a practice knowing as needling in this chapter. Nothing super graphic but it does involve needles if that freaks you out.

Having the official stamp of friendship with Oikawa again doesn’t change much in their day to day, other than the fact that now Oikawa has taken it upon himself to bother Hajime every single second of the day. He waits for Hajime to finish up after practices, insisting on walking him to his car, which is stupid, and he tells him that every time, but Oikawa does it anyway. And really, Hajime doesn’t have that much of a fight in him to argue. He spends Hajime’s lunch break with him too, slowly but surely catching each other up on all that they’ve missed in their lives. Sometimes, they just eat in silence, rather, it’s Oikawa eating while Hajime answers emails, or schedules appointments.

It’s nice.

It’s normal.

It’s filling up a hole in his chest he hadn’t known was there. Or maybe he had, just got really good at ignoring it. Most of his Oikawa related feelings got easy to ignore when Tobio was born.

This change doesn’t go unnoticed.

“So,” Yaku starts. He’s got his head pillowed in his arms, laying on his stomach on a table while Hajime wipes his calf with an alcohol wipe, disinfecting the area. He just shooed Oikawa out of the training room so he could get ready for Yaku’s dry needling session. Yaku had watched the entire thing with a funny look on his face. “What’s with you and Oikawa?”

Hajime lines the needle up against his calf, quickly tapping on the end of the applicator to insert the tiny needle into the muscle, feeling it twitch once and release. He moves to grab another, repeating the same process before answering. “What about me and Oikawa?”

He had been right, in his initial prediction, that him and Yaku would be friends. They are similar, cut from the same cloth. Yaku hisses when the third needle goes in.

“Don’t play dumb. He’s all happy now. It’s annoying.”

“You would find someone else’s happiness annoying,” Hajime says, sweetly as he taps the fourth needle.

“You’re _evil,”_ Yaku grunts. Needling isn’t particularly pleasant. Hajime has had it done more times than he can count. It’s one of those, sucks now, sucks for a little bit after, and then feels better kind of deals. But it does help with muscle tightness. And currently, Yaku’s left calf is a rock.

“Maybe,” Hajime agrees. “You won’t even know they’re in there in a couple minutes.”

“I guarantee that’s not true. And stop trying to dodge my question- _shit.”_ His muscle had twitched violently on that one. Muscle twitches aren’t inherently painful, but they can be uncomfortable.

“ _Ooo_ that was a good one,” he grins.

“You’re taking pleasure in this you sick bastard,” Yaku grumbles. “Answer me.”

“There’s nothing to answer,” Hajime says, ignoring the ‘sick bastard’ part, taking off his gloves and discarding them. He checks his watch, 11:43 am, setting a timer for ten minutes. “We haven’t seen each other in ten years. We caught up.” He shrugs.

“Wait,” Yaku presses up on his forearms, looking at Hajime with a critical eye. “You mean to tell me that Oikawa has been stinking up practice with his Happy Alpha scent for weeks, and you two are _just friends?”_

Hajime furrows his eyebrows. “Uh, yea. What else would we be.”

“You’re serious? Like you aren’t fucking with me?”

“ _No._ I don’t-”

“Hey Iwaizumi-san do you have any- _ew,”_ Kuroo interrupts him. There’s a look of horror on his face. Yaku’s mouth presses into a thin line.

Kuroo works in management, so Hajime doesn’t get to see him often. He’s never come into the training room before.

“What the hell is that?” He points to the needles.

“Dry needling,” Hajime answers simply. “Did you need something?” Yaku still has six minutes before he’s done.

“Okay? Follow up question _why?”_

“It’s for muscle tightness.”

“Tetsu, do you need something, or are you just here to bother us?” Yaku glares at him. Kuroo makes a snotty face back at him, but his eyes are soft.

“Yea, actually. I was going to ask for some pain killers.” He shoots Hajime a pleading look.

“For what?” He asks him, already moving to the medicine cabinet.

“Headache,” he calls to him. He hears Yaku scoff.

“You’ve been staring at a screen for too damn long. Your eyes look kind of dry too. Are you wearing your contacts?” It comes in rapid fire succession, and Hajime is really glad Yaku is too far away to hear him snort as he ducks down to grab a couple pill packets.

“Yes, dear,” Kuroo coos, coming out only half as sarcastic as Kuroo probably wanted it to. Hajime had wondered about the two of them. They show up together, and leave together, unless Kuroo is staying back late. Then he tosses his keys to Yaku and tells him to go home, that he’ll catch a train later. But Hajime knows Yaku always comes back to pick him up. He’d overheard Kuroo complaining about it, telling Yaku that he should already be asleep by the time Kuroo is done. Looking at them now, it’s rather painfully obvious.

Well, he never claimed to be good at picking up on relationships, or other people’s feelings.

Kuroo takes his pills and leaves, but not without giving Yaku a soft look.

“So,” Hajime begins the process of extracting the needles. “ _Tetsu,_ huh?”

A blush blooms across his cheeks. He hides his face in his arms. “Shut up and do your job,” he mutters.

Hajime laughs and does as told. He tells Yaku to hydrate well after he gives him the all clear to go, handing him a bag of ice as well for any soreness.

But his mind is still caught up on one thing.

_Just friends._

***

Tooru is bored. _So bored._ Coach has given the team the morning off for recovery. No doubt Iwaizumi had something to do with that. He’s a big advocate for recovery and active recovery.

He would go bug Iwaizumi, because he knows he’s in his office for the morning, taking appointments. But Iwaizumi also sent out a text in their team LINE group chat saying anyone found in the vicinity of the gym that isn’t coming to see him for treatment will be escorted out personally by him.

And Tooru knows him well enough to know that he’s not bluffing.

Still, he’s _bored_. And he’s already gone for a light jog. It’s only 9:30 in the morning. He doesn’t want to spend his entire morning lazing around his dorm. He could, he supposes, go find a couple of his teammates. But he sees them _everyday._ Plus, he’s pretty sure most of them are probably asleep still.

He flops back onto his bed.

He’s mindlessly scrolling through his feed when he sees a picture Matsukawa posted of Hanamaki holding a very disgruntled Tobio with the caption, _Guess who just became the favorite uncle!_

Thinking on it now, Tooru feels a little silly for not realizing that Tobio is Iwaizumi’s son. To be fair, Iwaizumi has never featured in any of Matsukawa’s or Hanamaki’s posts, nor did any of their captions hint to the fact either. Tooru had just assumed that Tobio came from one of Matsukawa’s siblings, given the dark hair.

It might have been a little stupid for not reaching out and clarifying, especially since Matsukawa’s siblings are four and five years younger than him respectively.

Oh well. Live and learn.

But it does give Tooru an idea.

 **Tooru (9:38 am):** Makki!

The response is immediate.

 **Makki (9:38 am):** no <3

Tooru makes an affronted noise. Rude.

 **Tooru (9:39 am):** I didn’t even ask anything!

He hopes Makki can feel his pout through the phone.

 **Makki (9:39 am):** you were gonna ask if I was free. And the answer is no.

 **Tooru (9:39 am):** but Makkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiii

 **Tooru (9:39 am):** im so booooooooorrrrrrrreeeeed

 **Makki (9:39 am):** cant help you there pal im on babysitting duty and dont you have practice?

That peaks his interest.

 **Tooru (9:40 am):** Tobio?

 **Tooru (9:40 am):** got the morning off

 **Makki (9:40 am):** who else would i be babysitting at 9:40 on a friday? this is prime sleeping time

“No need for the sass Makki-chan,” Tooru grumbles. Iwaizumi had told him that Makki has become somewhat of a designated babysitter for Tobio while he works. He knows Iwaizumi feels bad, by the way he insists he’s told Makki many times that he can just _hire_ a babysitter, but that Makki shrugs him off every time.

“I don’t know why he does it,” Iwaizumi had said, shaking his head like _Makki_ was the idiot. Tooru had a couple guesses, none of which he would say out loud.

Despite their growth in friendship within the last month of reuniting, there are still a lot of boundaries Tooru doesn’t know how or when to push, Some things he just can’t bring himself to ask, not after almost fucking everything up the first time. Embarrassment flushes through him at the memory, making his stomach twist. _Who’s the father,_ Tooru is still kicking himself for that one.

 **Makki (9:40 am):** you know what lemme ask iwa if its cool you come over

He sits up in bed. He hadn’t been expecting an _invite._ Iwaizumi hasn’t been _hiding_ Tobio from him. He shares stories and pictures of him all the time. But he hasn’t extended an invite out to formally meet him. Last time Tooru saw him was at the grocery store, when he’d gone and made a fool out of himself then too. Tooru figured they just weren’t at the point where Iwaizumi would be comfortable with that.

 **Makki (9:41 am):** he says its fine. just said to keep you hydrated and fed

 **Makki (9:41 am):** didnt know i was babysitting two kids today lol

Tooru’s mouth drops open.

 **Tooru (9:41 am):** Rude! I can feed and hydrate myself! (ง'̀-'́)ง

 **Makki (9:41 am):** didnt deny the kid part

He sends his address next.

 **Tooru (9:42 am):** Whatever see you in 20

He can’t keep the giddy smile off his face as he gets ready.

It disappears when he gets a text from Iwaizumi.

 **Iwa-chan (9:43 am):** Don’t traumatize my kid.

 **Tooru (9:43 am):** Mean! I’m great with kids!

 **Iwa-chan (9:44 am):** Takeru doesn’t count.

 **Tooru (9:44 am):** Yes he does!

 **Iwa-chan (9:45 am):** You weren’t allowed to watch him by yourself until you were 15 shut up.

Oikawa sends a middle finger emoji in response. You forget a two year old in a play pen _one time,_ and suddenly everyone thinks you’re irresponsible. Tooru is a very loving, _very doting_ uncle. And he _is_ good with children. All the kids that come to watch his games _love_ him.

He’ll show him.

***

“Hang on a sec, kiddo,” is what he hears before the door is swinging open, moments after he knocks. Standing there, dressed in little overalls and a blush pink t-shirt is Tobio, blinking up at Tooru with dark eyes.

Tooru finds himself staring right back. He really doesn’t look anything like Iwaizumi.

He doubts the kid will recognize him. They didn’t meet for that long at the grocery store. But recognition fills his eyes when he takes whiff of the air. “The Tall Man! Uncle Makki it’s the Tall Man! From the grocery store!” Or at least Tooru _thinks_ he said grocery store. It comes out garbled like ‘gobery’.

“He’s good at recognizing scents,” Makki smiles, picking Tobio up from behind and balancing him on his hip. He looks so domestic. Tooru tells him so.

“Oh god, not you too. Iwaizumi said the same thing a few weeks ago,” he groans.

“Unclehood has changed you,” Tooru tells him gravely, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, laughing when Tobio mimics him. “Remember when you were going to be a bachelor forever? A free man?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, hoisting Tobio up higher on his hip.

“Shut up Tall Man,” Tobio turns a glare at him. Tooru is so stunned a strangled laugh escapes him.

“Tobio,” Makki is desperately trying to keep the smile off his face, going for stern with a hint of unease. “We don’t say that right? We don’t want Mama getting mad.” He says it like it’s happened before. Tobio nods determinedly. “And what do we say to the Tall Man?”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound very sorry.

“The Tall Man has a name you know,” he rolls his eyes, but ruffles Tobio’s hair. “My name is Oikawa.”

“O-kawa?”

“ _Oi_ -kawa.”

“O-kawa.”

“Repeat after me. Oi-”

“Oi-”

“kawa.”

“kawa.”

“ _Oikawa.”_

“O-kawa.”

“You know what,” Tooru sighs. “Close enough.”

“Okay Kawa-san,” he turns to Makki. “Uncle Makki I want to color now.”

Makki laughs, looks at Tooru’s face, and laughs again, setting Tobio down so he can go to wherever his coloring books are.

“He just made up a new name!” Tooru accuses. “We spent two minutes trying to figure mine out!”

“It’s probably generational payback for ‘Iwa-chan’,” Makki teases.

“ _Generational payback,”_ Tooru squawks. “That nickname is _cute!_ And made from a place of _love!”_

“Really? That’s so funny because Iwaizumi told me it was because you couldn’t pronounce his name right,” he smirks, bringing a hand up to his mouth, in a _I just said something true, and you’re not going to like it_ gesture.

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t made from a place of _love_ ,” he insists, not denying the fact that he couldn’t say _Iwaizumi_ properly when he was four. “That was just laziness. And probably spite. Are we sure Iwa-chan hasn’t trained him to say my name incorrectly.”

Makki snorts. “I’m not gonna deny that he would, but I don’t think he has time to do that.”

Tooru pouts at him, making a mental reminder to ask Iwaizumi about it later today at practice. He senses something diabolical.

“You can’t fight a three year old.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You had your fighting face on.”

“This is just my face!”

Little paddling of feet draws their attention away from bickering. Tobio comes from around the corner holding multiple coloring books, along with crayons and colored pencils.

“Kawa-san do you want to color with me?” He asks, shyly, looking at Tooru with big hopeful eyes, like it would make his entire three year hold life if Tooru colored with him.

And _oh_. Oh that’s adorable. Tooru’s heart shatters into a billion pieces from sudden onset cuteness overload, nearly bringing him to his knees. He wants to reach out and squeeze Tobio’s cheeks, or maybe run his own head through a wall. He does none of those things. “Of course Tobio-chan!” Practically skipping to the table where Tobio sets down a frog coloring book, opening the page to a tree frog and demanding that Tooru color that one.

“Just as bossy as Iwa-chan,” Tooru says with nothing except fondness. Makki sets down a cup of tea he didn’t ask for, but appreciates all the same.

“You have no idea,” Makki sighs as he sits. “It’s always ‘Uncle Makki do this. Uncle Makki do that’,” his voice goes high, a terrible imitation of a three year old. Tobio shoves crayons in his hands, designating which colors he ought to use, prompting Makki to give a _see what I mean_ look.

They color in mostly silence, with a few exceptions of Tobio deciding that Tooru was done with his drawing before he was actually done with his drawing and turning the page for him, picking out new colors as well. But still, it doesn’t take long for Tobio to get bored and scamper off to the small living room to play with his toys.

“How did Iwa-chan manage to make something so cute,” Tooru leans back in his chair, looking over at where Tobio is destroying a small city with a godzilla toy. Like mother, like son, Tooru thinks with a smile. Tobio might not look like Iwaizumi, but he sure does act like him. Same bossy demeanor, same disgruntled look, same immediate reaction to concern when Tooru accidentally broke a crayon, asking, “Kawa-san okay?” before delving into a long-winded babble that had forty different side stories and made no sense whatsoever. It was one of those smile and agree moments.

He’s just as sweet as Hajime too. He gave Makki most of his colorings, and even let Tooru keep a couple as well. He’s already mentally envisioned where he’ll hang them in his dorm.

Makki snorts. “Just wait until you experience him _not cute_.”

Oikawa considers this, remembering all of Hajime’s _not cute_ moments, and suppresses a shudder.

He also considers what Makki’s words mean. “You think I will?”

“Will what?”

“Experience him _not cute,”_ he gestures over to Tobio. Makki studies him, contemplative and serious and so unlike the Makki he used to know. It’s a strange thing, knowing the people you used to know are constantly changing without you. It makes him feel like he’s stuck in the past, like he’s looking through a two way mirror, seeing the change, but no one seeing him.

He went to Argentina to chase his dream.

And maybe he hasn’t been looking at the full scope of that dream.

Makki smiles at him, a little sad, a little admonishing. “If you stick around, most definitely.”

_If you stick around._

That cuts deeper than it should. He doesn’t have time for regrets. He’s made his decisions. And he’s happy with his decisions. Mostly.

Breaking ties with Japan wasn’t ever easy. It wasn’t spur of the moment. Taking each individual string and making surgical cuts as if it would hurt less to leave. It hadn't. The homesickness was unbearable those first few years. The desire to say _fuck it_ and book the first ticket home, or to California was so overwhelming there were days Tooru’s finger hovered over the _confirm payment_ button. But he never did.

There was one string he never wanted to cut, but did anyway. Looking at Tobio now, there was one string he should have raised hell or high water to hold onto.

He doesn’t have time for regrets, but he’ll always have one.

But maybe he does have time to make up for it.

“I want to,” he whispers without thinking. Makki hums, as if understanding all at once what he means. _I want to stay. I want him to call me Uncle Kawa. I want Hajime to stop looking at him like I’ll leave the minute his back is turned._

“Good,” Makki says, standing to gather Tobio for nap time. Tooru obliges when Tobio whines for him, saying he wants _Kawa-san_ to tuck him in. Surprise melts into fondness as Makki hands him over, muttering a “traitor,” under his breath.

Not that anyone should be surprised. Any Iwaizumi is going to gravitate towards an Oikawa, just as any Oikawa is going to gravitate towards an Iwaizumi.

Because the best thing about strings is they can be tied back together.

Now Tooru just needs to find where their ends meet.

***

He doesn’t have to search that hard. The next day at morning practice Iwaizumi shuffles up to him, coffee in hand, eyes still a little bleary, asking him if he’d like to come over for dinner.

“Tobio won’t stop asking,” he says through a yawn, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

“And what does his mother have to say about it,” he half-teases, rolling out his hamstrings on a foam roller. His Alpha demands he say yes, that he takes the Omega’s offer into his home, an opportunity to prove his _Alphaness_ to a single Omega. The sole surviving rational part of him tells him to make sure Iwaizumi isn’t _just_ doing it for his son.

Iwaizumi rewards him with an eye roll. “It’s a yes or no question. Are you coming to dinner or not?”

“I’d love to,” he smiles genuinely at him, excitement coursing through his veins at the prospect. He’s happy. His Alpha is happy. Iwaizumi must pick up on it because he sneers at him.

“Great. I’ll text you the address,” he says, walking off before Tooru has a chance to respond. “Be there at 8,” he calls over his shoulder.

Tooru huffs and rolls his eyes, mentally calculating all that he’ll have to bring without Iwaizumi telling him.

His difficult, prickly omega.

That thought stops him in his tracks.

_His?_

That’s new.

He’s never thought of Iwaizumi as _his_ before. The tiny voice in his head that sounds strangely like Iwaizumi immediately starts yelling at him.

He shakes his head. Probably just the excitement talking.

“I’ll be there at 7:55 sharp Iwa-chan!” He coos to Iwaizumi’s retreating back, laughing when Iwaizumi turns to glare at him, a code for _if I wasn’t at work and at risk of being fired I would be flipping you off right now but since I can’t I’ll just glare at you until you get the message._

He throws up a victory sign for good measure.

He might not be able to tie their strings back together, but he thinks he might be going in the right direction.

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters are mine. 
> 
> And as always, comments and kudos are appreciated :)


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